


The Sadist

by coffeethyme4me



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-29
Updated: 2010-04-29
Packaged: 2017-10-09 10:44:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeethyme4me/pseuds/coffeethyme4me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was asked for: 1. Neal unable to control himself, 2. more play in the office, 3. Neal wearing a plug to work, 4. Peter giving Neal a blowjob, 5. 69-ing, 6. public sex.  To which I gladly say:  checkcheckcheckcheckcheckcheck!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sadist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hoosierbitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoosierbitch/gifts).



> I own nothing.

The sadistic things Peter sometimes does to Neal aren't sadism per se. Neal knows this. Neal has come to understand much about Peter Burke. One of those many new things is that, while Peter never expected to have a male lover, or any other lover besides El ever again for the rest of his loyal-like-a-dog life, he took to fucking Neal like Mickey Mantel took to the bat. Not a ready analogy for Neal, but one that certainly suits his lover, big wood and all.

Another thing that became apparent reasonably early on was that Peter had a complete, utter, adorable fascination with both Neal's body and what he, Peter, could do with and to it.

It started with simple things. The fact that he could make Neal come in roughly one minute and fifty-two seconds. This, found out in the Taurus while parked in the garage after lunch. No time for backseat. No time for endearments, ear nibbling, nipple play, or right words spoken in the right voice. Just Peter doing a double take at Neal's packed slacks. "Are you *hard*?"

"Yeah."

"Wh-Why?"

"Dunno – say – how 'bout you shut up and-"

Neal had it out. Peter grabbed it. A pump, a squeeze, a few flying strokes and Neal was shooting jizz all over the dash.

"Wow," Peter said.

"Yeah, let's go," Neal had replied.

It took further reflection throughout the boring, let's-cowboy-up-and-get-this-paperwork-done day to come to the conclusion that Peter just wasn't used to it happening that fast. And not only that. From the glazed, nearly awe-inspired looks he was leaking Neal's way, he *really* wasn't used to super-fast being a *good* thing. Ever.

Neal suddenly felt like a shiny new toy, and he liked it.

Not that they don't take their time a lot, too. And that holds its own fascination for Peter. In fact, seeing how long he can torture Neal without letting him orgasm could have been Peter's Science Fair Project had the FBI required such displays of ingenuity and dedication.

"Please…" Neal would beg, hands cuffed, knees hiked to his shoulders, two of Peter's fingers up his ass and the other hand slowly fondling Neal's sweaty cock.

"Just a few more minutes," Peter would say absently.

This would have been after an hour, a few hours in a cock ring, a day, a few days… Cold showers are NOT Neal's style. But they are his predicament when Peter gets in one of those moods.

Neal reasons it's not exactly a Peter and El thing.

"Hey, El, don't come for a week, huh?"

"I'll come all I want while you're sleeping on the couch, mister."

Yeah, no.

It is Neal's duty, his place, his lot. And even when he hates it, he knows he also absolutely loves it.

But it isn't sadism for Peter. Not even when he drives a butt plug up inside Neal's ass and makes him hold it while Peter showers and shaves, while Neal showers and shaves, right up until it's time to go in and Peter strips Neal's pants down, bends him over, fucks the thing in and out a few times, thumbing Neal's aching cock, and makes Neal come all over June's perfect wood floors.

It isn't sadism, Neal realizes. It's pure, unadulterated joy.

Neal has never given joy to another human being. Neal has always prized a thing he recognizes as happiness instead. Happiness, he thinks, could be spiritual but just as often is not. There is no question with joy. Neal adds up the numbers. Neal tries to wrap his head around this one sobering fact: sex with Peter is as good as stealing art. It's better. Because art doesn't lick your balls.

Of course, that's sort of the rub. So to speak. Neal realizes Peter hasn't exactly licked his balls, either. Or his cock. Not that Neal is complaining. It's not as though Peter isn't a generous lover. He has drawn out Neal's orgasm so long Neal has been afraid of its sheer kinetic force. He has fondled every body part Neal has with his hands, sometimes making Neal come two or three times in a night before he'll take his own release. And he has done things with that monster cock of his that reduce Neal to a pile of quivering wordlessness on more occasions than Neal would like to admit.

He just, for whatever reason, doesn't use his mouth for anything but kissing. Neal finds this…gentlemanly. And profoundly irritating. It's gotten a bit ridiculous, even. He dreams of it more often than not: getting to feel Peter's sly mouth working between his legs…. The really bad part, though, is that these dreams have started happening in the day, at the office, with people staring.

"Caffrey!" This is Jones. "You with me?"

"Bagels, sure."

"I said the files on Sandstone," he answers uncertainly. Uncertain Neal isn't wacko.

It's an issue. Neal is ready to admit this. Neal is ready to beg for his boss to get on his knees already and suck it.

And then one day, it starts to seem like he won't have to. Or he will, but, well…it's complicated.

The thing is, and this is backtracking just a tiny bit, Peter is really, really into butt plugs. Not for himself. Although, he came reluctantly hard with Neal's ring finger gently fucking into his virgin hole while Neal blew him once. Twice. Six different times, but who's counting? But when the fuck is turned, and Peter gets to put something inside Neal's ass, he becomes like a deranged boy scout:

Peter. Is always. Prepared.

Neal knows this analogy is all kinds of perverted, seeing as how the Boy Scouts' motto on The Gays is, "Outlaw the Pedophile Commie Bastards…and Don't Forget Your Flashlight!", and this is what Neal likes about the analogy. But he digresses.

The point is, Peter loves to shove big and small, sleek and ribbed, phallic and balled butt plugs inside Neal's ass and then make him come that way.

And he's ready to do it again.

But they're already late for work. They usually are when they spend the night at Neal's rather than in the more ordered El-run Burke household. Neal is spent, his hole used up. It's already stretched from Peter's fuck, from the extra fingers Peter had worked in alongside his cock. And from his machinations back there, it had certainly felt like Peter had been trying to fuck Neal and jerk off at the same time.

Neal is stretched and happy and just…done.

Neal is too loose and he knows it. He's afraid that even if they had time, any plug Peter would shove up there would just fall out anyway, except something that was so big it would most certainly make Neal walk like an aging, alcoholic John Wayne.

So it's a surprise when Peter pulls from the drawer a modestly thin and sleek blue number they used to use when they first got started and Peter just had no idea how much Neal liked his hole abused by large, unyielding objects.

Neal looks at his watch and gives Peter the Wide Innocent Eyes.

Peter holds up the plug, a sweet half-smile on his lips.

"Peter…"

"You will," he says.

"It's too small. I…"

"You can," Peter answers.

And all the while, he's walking toward Neal like an old 50s detective villain with a dagger. Or Sharon Stone with an ice pick. Neal is pretty sure Peter has his underwear on, though. He's already in his work slacks, his dress shirt on but short on buttoning. He looks so amazingly, unselfconsciously HOT that Neal knows he won't be able to deny him a goddamn thing if Peter opens his mouth to actually ask.

Neal checks his watch again and fights the urge to back away. "But we've only got…"

"I want this in you at work."

Neal's eyes go earnestly round. Then he smiles on a laugh that's more like choking. "You're not…"

"I'm dead serious," Peter says. Neal drops his eyes to that muscled chest, those ripped abdominals usually completely disguised in his stuffy suits. Neal gulps.

"I can't hold that in. I'll…"

"You'll do it. You'll hold this hard up your little butt all day."

Neal gulps again, but his dick is starting to swell traitorously.

"Do you know why you will, Neal?"

"Because I'm your bitch?" Neal tries.

Peter shakes his head.

"Because you'll blister my thighs with a cane?"

"You wish."

"Because-"

"Neal shut UP."

Peter is on him now, caressing Neal's cheek with the smooth plug. His breathing is crazy, his heart thumping dangerously. And then Peter inserts the plug right into Neal's stunned mouth. Neal obligingly sucks at it, moaning, his dick saluting proudly now. All hail the FBI!

Peter fucks the plug in and out between Neal's distended lips. "You'll do it," he says. "Because once you do," still screwing Neal's face with the plug, and Neal's eyes flutter closed. "Tonight, when we get back here…"

"Mm hmm?" Neal hums around the slim phallic gelly.

"I'll suck off your poor, neglected, stunningly gorgeous cock."

And he's not pretending. He's serious. Peter loves Neal's cock. Peter's going to suck it. He wants to suck it. Neal's beaming smile and stiff dick respond stupidly, conveniently ignoring the fine print. But the plug is still in Neal's mouth, resting on his teeth now, and Peter withdraws it and smacks it against Neal's cheek as a gentlemen might have used smelling salts on an overcome lady a few centuries ago.

"But only if you squeeze your hole down on this baby for roughly eight hours."

Neal is still reeling in blow job land, and so he starts to think yes…yes… Yes, I can! And then with a flick of Peter's finger against something in his other hand, the plug begins to whir against Neal's cheek.

"Noooo," Neal whines. "Peter, not at work. Not in front of the others. I'll…"

"You'll what?" Peter asks, inserting the vibrating plug back into Neal's mouth.

"Mph nnmmp!"

Peter smiles. "What was that?"

Neal pulls off the plug and licks his lips, then cries pitifully, "I'll COME!"

"No you won't," Peter says with what seems like misplaced confidence.

"Peter!"

"Not if you want to come in my mouth tonight."

"You're going…to let me…" Neal stammers.

Peter sticks the plug back in Neal's mouth abruptly. "Yes." And then he walks away. "Lube it, stick it in, get dressed, and let's go."

…

It's uncomfortable at first. Psychically, Peter understands, or seems to, and doesn't use the vibration function, though Neal knows it's in his right hand pocket. He's been warned not to steal it or his dick doesn't get sucked. Ever.

Walking into a room full of your would-be peers and almost-friends and some near-enemies with a skinny butt plug squeezed up your ass so hard it's like you're trying not to fart in church, is a unique experience. Neal found out with a near miss in the car that had him girly-screaming and Peter nearly wrecking the Taurus, that you can, in fact, squeeze too hard and shoot the damn thing out your rear. Some maneuvering and blushing and it was secure once again, but it was enough to send spirals of abject terror twirling up Neal's spine.

Peter didn't relent. And now they are at the coffee machine, and Peter is passing him a mug and smiling like he has no idea Neal's, at that very moment, fucked on his plug, impaled and measuredly convulsing on the stick like his life depends on it.

Like Neal isn't, every moment of this day, a sexualized thing. And still it isn't sadistic. Peter looks down at his own coffee cup and asks Neal, "Cream?" Neal thinks he might be teasing him, but the gaze he turns on Neal next is nothing if not…subtly adoring.

"No thank you, Peter," Neal says. Peter claps him lightly on the back and heads to his office, leaving Neal to the bullpen.

The first time the vibes go off, Peter is nowhere to be seen, and Neal is alone at his dorky desk.

"Ohgod," Neal says under his breath before he can stop himself.

"You say something?"

Jones has just walked in. He's stopped at Neal's desk with a file open in his hands.

"N-no, just…" Neal thinks fast. "Cramp." He rubs at his calf, the plug firing away at all the right (and oh so wrong!) places, and it is just horrifying to be looking at Jones while his ass vibrates!

"All right then," Jones says dubiously, but then again, Neal thinks, Jones mostly sounds slightly dubious. He'd sound that way if you asked where he was going to lunch.

Neal is glad when he walks away because he's starting to get really hard. His eyes have started to water. He's thinking he may have to make a run to the bathroom, if not to jerk off, simply to wait until Peter turns it off so he can get himself under control. His toes are curling inside his shoes.

And then it stops. Neal lets out a long breath, both relieved and frustrated. Something in him wanted Peter to keep going. Wanted Peter to make him come right then and there. He wipes a bead of sweat from above his brow and looks up to see Hughes giving him the finger point, summoning him up.

Neal straightens his slacks under the desk and then stands. When he arrives in Hughes' office, Peter is there was well. His face is a flat mask, but his eyes look straight into Neal's, unblinking, until Hughes starts to talk about something having to do with some paperwork, some files on a cold case, some new evidence, Peter getting a team put together, a meeting in two days, and some other things Neal doesn't really hear because his asshole has started to vibrate on low.

Neal shifts to his left foot, frowning and trying to look interested in what his boss's boss is saying, not quite believing that this is happening, that Peter, sweet, caring, rule-abiding Peter, would be vibing him NOW, making his dick go slightly swollen again NOW, right after the one at the desk and while they're in Hughes' office!

A surreptitious glance Peter's way does show the incriminating hand in the incriminating pocket.

"That's all," Hughes says, dismissing them both. Peter opens the door for him on the way out, and the vibration stops.

"I knew you could," Peter whispers in his ear softly. And then he's back to his office, leaving Neal to suffer another partial erection that DOES. NOT.WANT.TO.FLAG. Neal would give nearly anything, in fact, to get under Peter's desk with Peter's big dick deep in his mouth, the plug on high, and his own hand burrowed down the crotch of his pants. He wants to be bad. He wants to take a side trip to the men's room, lock himself in the stall, sit on the hard tile, forcing the plug all the way in, the wide base pressing like it wants in, too, and jerk himself silly.

He does no such thing, cowering at his desk and absorbing himself in the dullest file EVER.

He's practically falling asleep with his face in it by 11 o'clock, so Neal gets up, gingerly, watching the passing faces of other agents while he holds his sphincter just so. The humiliation warms him in a way that is also, humiliatingly, arousing.

Peter hasn't vibed him for a good two hours now, so it's just been the persistent press of a foreign, flesh-like object lodged in his anus to contend with. If he's honest with himself, it's been almost…pleasant. Like the time Peter fell asleep behind him with his hefty erection not softening quite all the way for long minutes and both of them falling asleep. He feels Peter inside him now, all day; with every "Hey there, Lauren," and "Thanks for the donut, Jones," Peter is fucking him. Peter has marked him.

Neal feels deliciously owned. He feels like a thing. He feels like he wants to weep with frustration and pride. He's worn bigger butt plugs, taken more elaborate items up his ass, but he couldn't have handled any of those at work. Peter knew he could, just barely, handle this demure, unassuming little device. And Peter has wanted him to feel loved, on edge, aroused, accomplished, his…throughout the work day. Neal does.

He makes his way over to the coffee machine, almost grateful to find barely warm, sludgy grounds decaying there. Nobody but Neal makes halfway decent coffee anyway, so if he makes it, he at least knows it'll be good. He bends carefully to retrieve the airplane hanger sized Yuban can, and he feels it. The undeniably hedonistic pleasure of Peter stimulating his rectum again. But he's bent over, and it's trying to vibrate right the hell out of his ass, so Neal is forced to clamp down on it, grabbing the coffee with shaking hands and slowly, awkwardly, willing the thing to burrow back to its happy home, standing again.

His eyes immediately lock with Peter's, just up the nearby stairs, leaned back in his desk chair and idly turning it this way and that, watching him through the glass. And it's just barely peeking out. Neal's terrified that the telling outline of its base can be seen through his slacks, so he turns, looking around at the half empty, half full office, (depending on your level of optimism and whether or not you've got a butt plug up you at work), and leans nonchalantly back against the counter, pushing the plug all the way back in as he does it. He sighs in relief and the sudden shock of new pleasure and pretends to read the back of the coffee can as he pushes it home, accidentally, gratifyingly pushing it directly into his prostate.

Neal can't help the wordless moan at the intensity, how his cock fills and swells against his right leg. And now all he wants to do is spin around, pressing his front side into the counter, uh, over and over again.

Peter's done it. Neal is seriously considering humping the office furniture. And the sick thing is, he knows he would love it.

He turns his head and looks right at Peter up in his office, the agony, he knows, written all over his face. And then he bounces his ass back against the counter, knowing it must look like he's just hopped up on a little too much caffeine and bored to anybody else. But Peter knows better. Peter watches Neal unabashedly masturbating his ass against the counter, pounding the vibrator into himself wantonly, staring into Peter's suddenly-hot eyes, and mouthing, "Peter…" A plea and a warning both. Neal doesn't think Peter wants him to come in his pants, for the other agents to see the wet soaking through his designer silk. Peter doesn't want to destroy Neal. Of course he doesn't.

But as Peter turns his chair this way and that, watching Neal start to lose it, Neal finally admits, has to admit, that his Peter, his loving, good Peter, is a bit of a sadist after all.

And just when his erection is starting to become something of an elephant in the room and Neal has to stop his ass-bouncing to turn toward the counter top to hide it, Peter dials the vibration down to low, and then finally off all together. Neal releases a trembling sigh. He starts to make the coffee. He takes his time. And still his cock only softens some; it stays half-hard. Probably just the way Peter wants it. It's painful…the desire to really get fucked, and having to feel that way here, over old FBI coffee grounds.

Neal feels the embarrassed tears spring to his eyes, carefully taking his new coffee back to his desk, his cock betraying him still, begging for a touch, a few strokes, anything to be brought off. And yet Peter doesn't come to his rescue. He hasn't even walked past or spoken to him since the brief meeting in Hughes' office. Neal is alone with his pain and with his want. And with the knowledge that if he can just do this, Peter will wrap his mouth around Neal's cock and suck until Neal comes.

He's lost in slightly more interesting case files when Peter walks past the desk. Neal looks up, hopefully, but Peter shakes his head once, No, or Not yet, Neal, and proceeds to the men's room by himself. Neal sighs and drops his tired eyes to the file again, feeling the beginnings of hunger start to replace the predominate physical urgings of his cock and ass for the first time that day.

Until he's jolted. Only once and very hard. Then again. Peter is in the restroom, surging the vibe up to high approximately twice a second. And, oh shit, it's good like that! Particularly when Neal starts to imagine Peter at the urinal, pissing, a little hard, having to point it down with one hand while he thumbs the vibe control with the other.

Oh God…

Neal starts to rock. Just a little. He feigns boredom and apparently succeeds because no one really pays him much mind. Half the office has already gone to lunch anyway. Neal wants to keen, to start begging, even though Peter can't hear him. He'd give anything to ignore the little head shake, get in that bathroom with Peter, and…

It stops. Neal is painfully hard, rock hard, his aching dick straining at the zipper on his pants. And a moment later, Peter emerges from the bathroom, looking no worse for the wear. He's about to pass Neal's desk, but he stops. He comes around to stand next to Neal's chair. He leans down and whispers in Neal's ear, "You're so sweet. I want to eat that open ass and your-"

"Peter."

Neal gives him credit; he doesn't bolt up guiltily at all. He just straightens and looks at Jones, one powerful hand still on the back of Neal's chair. "Yeah."

Neal is less cool. He's definitely sweating. The mental image of Peter bending him over for his mouth is still burning in his mind, right behind his eyes, replacing Jones.

"El called," Jones says. "She says she's on her way with lunch. And Frost has the files on Tucker. Did you want those back today?"

Peter purses his lips. "Tomorrow's fine." Jones starts to walk away, and Peter stops him. "But tell Frost not to make all those scribbles in the margins this time. He has notes, he can write 'em on a separate page."

"Sure," says Jones with a small smile. Then he disappears toward the elevators, leaving Peter and Neal somewhat alone again.

Peter leans back down. His lips actually brush Neal's ear. "You're so beautiful. It's everything I can do not to fuck you on the floor right now."

Neal looks around the office, sees his moment, and grabs for it. Actually, he grabs Peter's tie and seethes through his teeth, "Please, Peter… Take me somewhere and fuck me, please, I don't care where, I need you to fuck me, please, Peter…"

Peter stands. His smile is regretful. He smoothes his tie. "You're doing great," he says. "And lunch is on the way."

…

"There's you a deviled ham, honey," El says, laying it all out on Peter's desk. Neal's stomach rumbles, Christ, over deviled ham! "And Neal's turkey cream cheese." She gives him a wink. "With extra sprouts."

Peter is smiling and rubbing his hands together. Ate least he can't vibe Neal's rear and eat deviled ham at the same time. El sits next to Neal and picks up her fork to stab at her salad.

"Shit, hun, don't be on some diet," Peter says, looking betrayed.

El shakes her head. "I'm not. I had a cheeseburger about an hour ago. I just thought I could use the vegetables."

Peter smiles again. Neal feels almost normal. And then El has to say it. She puts her hand on Neal's thigh, patting it maternally, and says, "How's your butt, honey?"

Neal spits sprouts onto his plate. "You told her??"

"She's my wife," Peter says innocently. He takes a huge bite of sandwich.

"Who do you think told him he had to use the little one?" El asks, making a face.

Peter shrugs. Neal looks around, even though the only people left in the office are Decker, the mail guy, and Hughes, who is in his office with the door shut. Still, he thinks both Peter and El are a little overconfident about their privacy. Peter's discretion only goes so far, though. Neal gets the feeling all they'll really get are confused stares anyway, unless Peter fucks up and Frenches him in the bullpen one day. Nobody believes that what they're seeing is what they're seeing. Not Peter! Not with Neal! Even when Peter stands too close or Neal gazes up at him adoringly, even with the touching, everyone assumes it's not more than it looks like. They actually assume it's less than what it looks like! Ah, the perks of a closed-minded world!

Still, Neal thinks El should stop winking at him.

"So?" she prods, concerned.

"It's fine," Neal says tightly. He looks at Peter over his sandwich and Peter looks back. It's going to be a long rest of the day.

…

 

Peter vibes him at his desk. Peter vibes him getting coffee. Peter vibes him in the stacks so that he has to grip the metal shelves and bite his lip nearly bloody, thinking, What is the REACH on that thing?! And every time Neal has to take a piss, Peter vibes him then, too. Neal thinks this is the worst of all. Pissing with an erection is difficult for so many reasons, only one of which is the damned thing won't stay down. It's also just that Neal's body is set on sex, so getting the dick to switch gears is like pushing a string.

But when he finally coaxes his bladder to let go…

"Oh shit…" he breathes, the sexual high he's getting just from pissing into the bowl is almost unbearable. He tries to shake the piss off the tip when he's through and a little precum leaks out, too. The strength it takes to hold his whore cock in his hand and not get it off… Neal just hopes Peter appreciates all that he's going through!

You're so beautiful. It's everything I can do not to fuck you on the floor right now.

Sweet as that memory is, though, by 4:45, Neal is having violent thoughts about Peter. He's not sure how he's going to make it to whatever time Peter decides has been long enough and takes pity, oral fucking pity!, on Neal's crying cock. And it's crying. Neal has had to take trips to the restroom just to wipe it off and keep it from ruining his slacks and his reputation along with them. His trips are frequent enough that Jones sidetracks over to his desk with a worried frown and a whispered, "Lay off the coffee, man."

By 5:20, most agents have packed up to go. Cruz jetted by Neal's desk at precisely 4:59 with her mega-Starbucks thermonuclear mug clenched tightly in her hand and not a word of good-bye.

Neal sees Peter slowly step out of his office, briefcase in hand, locking the door behind him. Neal fidgets in his seat. Even if Peter doesn't help him out until bedtime, anything will be better than having to suffer this humiliation at work.

He watches Peter lean into Hughes' office for a perfunctory, "See you tomorrow." Neal waits like a bad puppy about to piss the floor. Peter turns away from Hughes' door, slips his hand into his pocket, and blasts Neal's ass with the full 9 volts. A single tear slips from Neal's eye, and Peter takes a slow breath seeing it.

He walks toward Neal with a measured confidence that tests Neal's ability to keep from sobbing his pleas for mercy. He pleads with his eyes, his ass itching to get fucked, cock full to overflowing with need. Peter stands before his desk, looking down.

"Let's go," he says.

Neal practically cries. He can't speak. He just nods.

At the elevators, Peter doesn't press the down button, though. He presses the up. He hasn't turned down the vibration, and Neal is having trouble standing without quaking. He doesn't question Peter, though. Just gets in the elevator and stands next to him, waiting for something he's not even sure is going to come any time soon.

They exit on the 10th floor. It's the one under construction for new IT offices. It's empty. Peter takes Neal's shaking hand in his warm, steady one and leads him toward the deserted men's room.

Once inside, Peter throws the lock, grabs Neal hard, and pulls him in, eating at his mouth and growling, "God, Neal, I'm dying." His tongue penetrates back to Neal's throat, his arms holding Neal in tight. He says it again, "I'm dying for you, Neal."

Neal wilts against Peter's shattering strength, held up only by his arms, the vibrations tearing him apart. He thinks he's going to come from Peter kissing him, from the pressure of Peter's thigh, hot between his legs.

"The stall," Peter demands, voice rough with wanting it.

Peter gets him inside, spins him away, roughly unfastens Neal's belt, his pants, rips them down to his knees along with his shorts. Neal's dick springs out on his cry. Peter bends him over, forcing Neal's hands onto the tile wall, kicks his feet apart, grabs the butt plug, and starts fucking Neal's ass with it.

"Oh my God…" Neal cries. "Oh my God." Incoherent as his cock dangles and swings over the toilet bowl. Peter thrusts the plug in and out, the vibing tip stroking over his prostate. A long line of precum hangs off his cock, now, shiny and obscene.

Neal arches his back, opening his ass as far as he can to feel his nemesis plug, how easily it fucks him, how ready he is for it. He's moaning continually, eyes rolling back in his head, and Peter, behind him, grunts, spits onto the moving plug and Neal's red hole.

"I can't…" Neal wails, terrified. He can't stop it. He has no control over it now. Tears follow one another down his face as he rocks onto the fuck.

"I know," Peter says, and Neal can hear tears in his voice, too. "I know, Neal." And then he reaches around with one hand, still nailing him with the plug with the other, and he milks the cum from Neal's cock.

"Peter!" Neal cries. It hurts, ripping through his cock, his ass clamping down on the piston. "Hurts," he whines. But he's coming and coming and coming into the toilet, shaking. "Peter…" he breathes, and the last three jets have him aching, faint, swaying.

And Peter pulls the plug out, grabbing Neal up in his arms, turning him and holding him. He lifts him into a cradle hold. "Shhhh, sh sh sh sh sh," he tells Neal, rocking him. Neal is shuddering, his naked ass still opening and closing on a piercing plug that's no longer there. His cock even convulses one more time, empty, and he groans against Peter's chest.

"It's okay," Peter says. "It's okay. I've got you. I've got you, baby."

Neal takes several minutes just to feel Peter's body against his own, so solid and capable. He feels his breath match Peter's. He feels the euphoric relief of having come and the dual gratitude that his ass is finally free.

Peter starts to release him, letting Neal's body slide slowly down his own, and Neal feels Peter's enormous erection rub against him on the way down. "Peter," he gasps, realizing he has not let himself have the release he gave Neal.

"I want to wait," Peter says, cupping his face, Neal's pants still somewhat absurdly around his calves. Peter kisses him, tongue so soft at Neal's lips. Then he says, "Turn around, Neal," and Neal's heart falls into his stomach. Peter reaches into his pocket, hand coming back out to yet again brandish the plug.

"Oh shit," Neal sniffs.

"Do you have to?" Peter asks, making Neal blush wildly. "Seriously, if you do, do it now."

Neal looks down. He doesn't want to nod, but getting fucked like that always sort of sets his insides in motion.

"I'll wait outside," Peter says.

When Neal calls him back in, he's clean and empty and, if not ready, willing. Peter smiles at him like he's some kind of miracle, and it gives Neal the swell of pride and love it takes to turn his back, bend over once more, and wait for the plug's renewed push into him.

Peter produces a small tube of lubricant and sweetly fingers it into Neal's ass, while Neal hisses, swollen and used as he is. Peter takes his time, even with such a slim plug, and he eases it into Neal slowly. When the base is up against Neal's cheeks, he asks, "Okay?"

Neal just nods fervently. Peter pulls his pants up for him, saving him the work of bending over and trying to keep the plug in place.

"Let's go home," Peter says.

…

El isn't there when they arrive, and Neal is secretly grateful. They actually share precious little of their sex lives with each other, the arrangement being more about the incredible emotional connection and support given and got from one another. They had worked it out early on that Peter would be shared between their beds but that much of the rest of their lives would mingle freely. So El is at her sister's for the night, and Peter is free to be Neal's for the second night in a row.

But there are two long-stem red roses lain conspicuously on the dining room table. Neal picks one up and brings it to his nose. Peter has let the dog out, and he comes over to Neal, wrapping him up in his arms again. Neal fits there quite well. The rose drops back down to the table when Peter opens Neal's mouth for a deep, slow kiss.

And then Peter starts undressing him. Neal feels the slick shirt drop from his shoulders, and his nipples immediately harden, trained to expect Peter's thumbs once bare. Peter makes a grunting sound of approval, seeing them, and he rubs his thumbs over them just how Neal likes. Loves… Neal sighs, his head falling back, the arousal rocketing straight to his cock. He mewls, and Peter starts thumbing them harder. God, the man knows just how to get Neal's cock up and leaking in the space of a breath.

Peter lets go of one raw tit and slips his hand into his pocket. For the first time since Neal came in the bathroom, Peter vibrates his ass again. It's on medium. The perfect buzzing accompaniment to the pleasure in his nipples and the sting in his ready-again cock.

And then Peter works on his belt, slower and more careful than in the men's room, but he tugs Neal's slacks down with growing alacrity. He kneels to help Neal out of his shoes and takes everything off, leaving Neal just as Peter likes him: in his birthday suit. Just the tracker remains. And, to Neal's surprise, Peter doesn't rise. He remains on the floor, and his hands slide up the backs of Neal's legs proprietarily. He cups Neal's bottom and squeezes. Neal looks down at him, frowning in amazement.

"How do you taste, Neal?" Peter asks, looking up at him for a moment, before setting his intentions on Neal's jumping cock, snaking fingers around it to make a good fist, making Neal moan. "You like to lick it off my fingers." Neal is powerfully turned on. He wants to fuck the fist Peter is making; he starts to, a little. He does like his taste. He's always liked it, from the time he first learned he could squirt semen.

Without warning, Peter opens his mouth and envelopes the head with his lips. Neal feels Peter's tongue go right for his piss slit. He grabs Peter's head, widening his feet. Peter flicks at the slit, and Neal gushes precum for him. His hands find the back of Peter's neck. He wants to slide to the back of his warm mouth – the vibrator is urging him to it – but Neal holds back, wishing he could see Peter's great body.

"Tuh-take off your…clothes," Neal sighs. "Please, Peter."

Without removing his now sucking mouth from Neal's dick, Peter shrugs the jacket off, loosens and rips off the tie, works the buttons on his shirt, and it's the fucking sexiest thing Neal has ever seen, this strong, butch man, his boss, his owner, with Neal's dick in his slick mouth, revealing that chiseled chest, tight stomach, giving his very first blow job ever. To Neal. Neal feels tears again, and he starts to blink.

Peter leaves his pants on, and somehow that's hotter, Neal thinks wonderingly. He strokes Peter's hair once, then just holds on to the nearby arm of the couch while Peter mouths all around the head of his cock.

He sucks off of it and looks up. "Am I doing it right?"

"Shit, Peter…"

"'Cause this is what it feels like you're doing to me. This?" And then he licks under the fat lip of the crown.

Neal stumbles a little. "Gonna fall…"

"Lie on the floor," Peter says, but then he doesn't wait for Neal, standing and scooping him up like he MUST know drives Neal crazy. Neal has a harsh kink for feeling weak in Peter's manly arms. Peter pushes the coffee table toward the couch with his foot and then lays Neal down in front of the cold fireplace. He looms over Neal for a moment, frozen, "I could light a-"

"Fuck fires, Peter," Neal says, tilting his ass up so that he's not lying on the plug. Peter helps him, pushing his knees up and out toward his shoulders like he's going to fuck him The plug slips a little, but Neal hugs it tight with his hole, getting a whole new kind of pleasure from having to squeeze onto the vibrations. Peter looks down at how he's holding onto it, his little hole gripping like a tiny fist. He looks lost in thought, licking his lips and watching Neal's sphincter seize on it.

"I want…" he says. He licks his lips again. Then he starts to pull the vibe out, and it's pulling on the mouth of Neal's anus, turning him inside out. When it's gone, Peter opens Neal up as wide as he'll go, thumbs peeling back the rim of him, and then Peter tongue-fucks him.

Neal whines, coming apart in pieces, pulling his knees up more, relaxing his hole open because he loves how it feels to be a slut for Peter, loves how deep Peter can lick him now and does. Neal moves his ass on Peter's face, and Peter's hands on the backs of his thighs push and pull, helping him get a rhythm. Peter slurps and grunts at Neal's hole, and Neal is going to come from it.

"Not yet," he begs Peter, who lifts his face, shiny with lube and sweat. He slips the tip of his thumb into the hungry hole and starts chewing on Neal's balls.

"Fuck you, Peter, God!" Neal keens. Peter's got him so hot for it, he's having visions of stuffing all of it in Peter's mouth, cock and balls both, and just riding his goddamned gag reflex to the finish.

The fact that he's a total slut-bottom for Peter, willing to beg him to get poked in the ass with whatever is closest at hand, stops the thought even before it really starts. He may ache and sweat and cry for it, but Neal likes nothing better than to be used by Peter, however Peter wishes, for however long Peter wishes it. Peter licks at a ball, hard enough to bounce it up and down on his, as it turns out, agonizingly talented tongue, and Neal just has to squirm on the bit of thumb and let his cock wait, red and sticky along his hip.

"You've got fat balls," Peter says, biting one. "I like that," he sighs. He sucks on one, pressing hard on Neal's thighs. He sucks on the other, humming. He goes back and licks around his thumb. "Gonna eat you up."

"Please..." Neal begs, broken of anything else.

Peter lifts up, pulling Neal's cock to his mouth. "I want to swallow it," he says. "Don't hold back," he instructs. "Just come in me." And then he works about a third of Neal's dick into his mouth, bobbing a little, slurping and humming. His fingers reach for Neal's tits again, pinching them while he goes down halfway, letting his spit and Neal's precum slick the way.

It's too much. He can't last…AGAIN. It's the goddamned nipples, really. Neal rocks under Peter's fingers, whining, thrashing, pressing his chest up for more and more and more while Peter sucks his cock and he can feel Peter's throat now and oh God FUCK!

Neal's semen coats Peter's mouth, hot around his sliding cock, and he feels Peter swallowing, thumbs rubbing hard and fast on Neal's angry-red tits. Neal bucks into the mouth, trying to grip carpet, and the damn dog is howling outside and he's coming and coming and coming in Peter's mouth and he's never come this much and there's no WAY Peter could be swallowing it, but he is. He is. And Neal is dying. Perfectly dying on Peter's rug and he's still whining for it when Peter lifts just enough to move around in a 180, to get his cock out through his fly and push it at Neal's face.

"OhyesPuh-" Neal is cut off by Peter's massive cock fucking into him, not waiting, not polite, but harsh and brutal and musky and battering inside, going down Neal's throat right away.

But Peter's mouth is back on Neal. He's still hard and it hurts. God, it hurts! And Peter only lifts his face to say, "Get on your tits," and Neal obliges, groaning around the monster cock in his mouth, spreading his legs and tweaking his own nipples, fast and sure. He just lays there getting his spent cock sucked too hard, his face getting a severe humping, and God help him, Peter's gonna make him come again.

He tries to say no around Peter's dick, tries to pull off, but Peter's cock, purple and furious, doesn't listen. It needs to fuck. It needs to explode cum down his throat. Peter is grunting like he's long gone and taking most of Neal's cock now, too. But it's not until Neal tastes the first of Peter's thick cum that he feels his balls contract for the fourth time that day, the second time in five minutes, and dry as a bone, he comes.

The sound is ripped from his throat, muffled around Peter's humping cock and drowned out by Peter's own harsh groaning. Mercifully Peter lifts his mouth off Neal's dry, spasming cock and pants, hips erratic over Neal's face. Peter pushes up, sitting, straddled over Neal's mouth, now watching Neal suckle his cock of the last of his cum, and he knocks Neal's hands away to torture Neal's nipples himself again, pulling, and Neal convulses again, one painful drop of ejaculate bubbling at his open slit.

Peter looks from the bubble to Neal's mouth around his dick, whispers, "Beautiful…" Then he groans as he pulls out of Neal's mouth, takes care not to kick Neal in the head as he moves down, lying on his back and pulling a boneless Neal on top of him. He wraps him up in his arms again, then he says, "I want you to taste how good you are," and Neal lifts his drowsy head, slants his mouth over Peter's, and lets Peter's tongue lick through his lips. They both hum with it.

Neal pulls away and rests his head in the nook of Peter's neck and shoulder. "I'm just gonna take a little nap," Peter tells him. "Stay on top of me." Neal smiles, says nothing, already drifting off. The last thing he feels is Peter's hand, tiredly sliding down his back to gently cup his well-used ass.


End file.
